


Beneath A Moonless Sky

by latin_cat



Category: Sharpe - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-07
Updated: 2012-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-01 15:09:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latin_cat/pseuds/latin_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The farewell in India, 1804.  (Set post-<i>Fortress</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beneath A Moonless Sky

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from the song 'Beneath A Moonless Sky' from "Love Never Dies" by Andrew Lloyd-Webber. The lyrics provided inspiration for the "plot".

India; a night when the moon hid her face behind the clouds. The air was humid as ever, something Arthur Wellesley knew he would not miss, and the general stood out on the balcony to his room, breathing the soft fragrance of jasmine that drifted up from the palace gardens below. He stood in his shirtsleeves; coat, waistcoat and stock discarded carefully over a chair before he had dismissed his orderly for the evening.

All was peace and silence, the darkness seeming to smother nearly every sound and sight. He could hear the crickets chirping though, and the odd call of a night bird; yet save these he might feel, were he inclined to think that way, that he was alone is this deserted quiet. He did not think such a thing, though. On this night Arthur Wellesley’s thoughts turned to regrets, to solemn remembrance… and guilt over what he was about to do.

He sensed Sharpe before he heard him. The ensign had slipped into the room silently – even now the general did not know exactly how he did it – and as he approached Wellesley heard the almost inaudible scuff of his boots on the cool marble tiles. He did not need to see the man’s face to know it was Sharpe; intimacy such as theirs did not require sight for recognition.

“So you came,” he said, not turning from gazing at the grey-black clouds above.

“I got your note.” Wellesley felt the other man steal up behind him; so close that he could feel Sharpe’s warm, spirit-soaked breath against his ear. “Did you think I wouldn’t come?”

That question – and what a question to ask, on this night of all nights! Wellesley felt a lump rising in his throat, and resolutely tried to swallow it down.

“I am ever fearful that you will not.”

“Arthur –”

“Hush now, Richard. This is not a night for words.”

A warm hand insinuated itself into Wellesley’s, and the general sought out those long, calloused fingers that he knew so well, lacing them with his own, taking solace from this slightest of touches. He did not want any more; not yet. It was enough, too much to bear to think that this would be the last time he held this hand in his.

“There’s news in the mess,” Sharpe said after a while. “They say you’re going home. Sailing back to England.” Wellesley resisted the urge to smile. It had always struck him as odd that Sharpe seemed to need to clarify ‘home’ as England whenever he spoke of it. “Is it true?”

“Yes.”

The general felt the slight tremor that ran through the other man’s fingers.

“So this is goodbye?” Sharpe asked, after a momentary silence. His voice sounded strangely rough, and Wellesley knew that the ensign’s deep green eyes now would be becoming moist with tears. He would try to suppress them, but in the end they would fall. Even if it was not tonight, Wellesley knew those tears would fall, and they would fall because of him.

“We always knew it would be goodbye, my dear. There is no denying it.”

“And what do we do now?” Sharpe asked.

Wellesley rubbed his thumb gently over Sharpe’s hand.

“Just be with me tonight, Richard. Just be with me, so that I can remember you like this always.”

He felt a strong arm snake around his waist, very soon joined by another, moving up and linking over his chest, feeling Sharpe’s hot body press against his back, a chin rest on his shoulder and a rough cheek rub against his own cheek.

“How could I do anything else?” Sharpe murmured.

The words sent Wellesley’s heart racing, nearly stealing his breath away. Relaxing into the other man’s embrace he felt Sharpe’s heart also beating hard against his spine. With a sigh he raised his other hand up and back to catch in what he knew would be soft dirty-gold locks.

“My Richard,” he whispered.

“My Arthur.”

It was that simple; all their feelings laid bare in that short exchange of words. An affirmation of their desire, a right of possession – _their_ names, _their_ love. Nothing could be simpler.

And then Sharpe spoke again.

“I love you,” he breathed.

This was too much for Wellesley. He choked, turning in Sharpe’s embrace and capturing his lips in his own, kissing him soundly.

“No words,” he growled harshly against Sharpe’s unresisting mouth. “No words.”

His kisses were urgent, fuelled by fear, longing, and a need to remember and take advantage of every second he had left with this man. Sharpe obliged, caressing him; his fingers tangling in short, tawny hair, lips as eager to possess as to give, bodies crushing together eagerly, as if their desperation alone could delay the inevitable parting.

_Never leave me,_ Arthur wished inside his head, as they found the edge of the bed and fell upon each other on the mattress. _Never leave me._

But he knew it was a wish that could never be granted.

\--------

As the first pale grey light of the false dawn was reaching over the horizon Wellesley rose from the bed. Sharpe still lay sleeping peacefully, naked on top of the sheets, his dirty-gold hair tousled on the pillow. Wellesley felt a sob welling up his throat as he gazed longingly at him, but fought it back down, and instead turned his head away, forcing himself to concentrate on dressing. He had been purposefully careful in ridding himself of his clothes the night before, knowing full well that he would have to leave silently and without waking the other man. Wellesley had not told Sharpe that he was leaving that very morning, that his valises were already packed and being stowed away aboard the ship that would carry him home. He did not wish to say goodbye; did not want to see the disappointment and pain in those beautiful green eyes. He was too much of a coward to face that.

Dressed, he stole a last glance at the slumbering form still in the bed. The dirty-gold hair, the closed eyes that when open he knew would be a peculiar shade of green, the thin lips, the roughly-shaven chin, the sinuous body, the lash scars that marked his back… His eyes drank in every detail of Sharpe’s appearance greedily, preserving this moment in his memory; probably as one of the most precious memories he would ever possess.

And then he turned, not looking back as he left the room. There would be no goodbyes; it was better that way. That way there could be no more regrets; not for him, and not for Sharpe.

\--------

Several hours later Sharpe woke. He stretched luxuriantly against the mattress, his body still sated from their passion last night… but as he rolled over, expecting to find Wellesley next to him, he found the bed cold and empty. Arthur was not there.

Sharpe sat up in alarm, all pleasant feeling replaced immediately by a sick sensation in his stomach. As he looked around the room for any trace of the general he perceived that there was nothing of Wellesley’s left in the room. No clothes, no valises, not a single stick of furniture that belonged to Wellesley remained. Baffled, Sharpe desperately wondered how this could have happened whilst he slept; but then he recalled he had not taken a good look at the room last night. It had been too dark, and Wellesley had not had a single candle burning, and though he had thought it odd at the time Sharpe had not thought to ask why. Now he knew. Arthur had known he was leaving, and what’s more had not wanted Sharpe to know before it was too late.

He knew now with certainty that Arthur was gone, and he was not coming back.

The tears that had welled up the night before now fell, down his cheek and onto the bedspread. Alone, against the rose-red dawn, he wept.


End file.
